


The Wasted Years; The Wasted Youth

by ephemeralnerd (RetconRenegade)



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Childhood Friends, Felix Hugo Fraldarius thinking he is subtle, Gen, Multi, Slow Burn, The Tragedy of Duscur, Underage Drinking, Unrequited Love, also swearing but is that a surprise with Felix in this story, dangerously ooc because lack of trauma, ish, no beta we die like Glenn, only fire emblem eh, underage shenanigans in general
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2020-10-06 10:27:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20505452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RetconRenegade/pseuds/ephemeralnerd
Summary: Tales of many a childhood cut short.***An account of events leading up to, and after the Tragedy of Duscur, from the perspective of our favourite quartet of childhood friends (plus a few others).





	1. Golden Days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Felix truly thinks he could spar with her forever.

_ GREAT TREE MOON 1176  
_ _ ETA: SEVEN MONTHS _

Chapter One: Golden Days

The sun was shining, and Felix was sweating. 

He parried, leapt back, thrust out with his wooden sword. Ingrid stepped to the side, twirling her lance and meeting his sword with the wooden shaft, pushing his sword away, twirling the weapon once more to lunge at Felix in the hope of catching him open—

“Nice try.” He easily avoided her manoeuvre. It was far too predictable. “Glenn taught me that one too, you know.”

“I know,” Ingrid stepped back and sighed. She then rested her lance on the ground and soon followed it, grass sticking to her training breeches as her legs met the ground. She began kneading her knees with her palms, groaning at the touch. “But I wanted to try it anyway.”

Looking down at her, Felix thought she ought to have stretched better before they began to spar. Strained muscles were troublesome but easily avoidable with a bit of foresight. 

“You’re not entirely hopeless.” He sheathed his sword and joined her on the grass, crossing his legs and leaning his weight back onto one arm. Taking this rare spare moment to briefly relax, he glanced at the cloud-riddled sky and let his hair down with his free hand. 

It was the first proper day of where the sun shone, and it would have been wrong to not take it to train. After 6 months of cold and of grey skies, it was nice to be able to distinguish one cloud from another. Not that Felix would say it out loud. 

On night patrol, Glenn had once spouted some poetic rubbish about how pleasant it would be to be a cloud. Some drivel about “having no responsibilities and living for yourself”.

Yes. Total, utter, rubbish. Clouds weren’t even alive. Glenn really should have stopped reading that “Romantic” tosh that Sylvain had recently been hooked upon. 

Romance was a business he was glad he wasn’t involved in, even when it seemed like everyone else around him was. Sylvain, and his constant flirting. Dimitri, and that girl from the empire. Ingrid and Glenn, and their little – well, big – engagement that existed well before either of them knew what engagement entailed. 

Ugh. All Felix needed was a sword and a sparring partner. Ingrid fit the bill of the latter perfectly, since she wasn’t flighty or lofty or self-serious. All she wanted was a good fight. 

“And for that stunning compliment, I thank you.” Ingrid’s voice brought him out of his contemplation. 

“Don’t push it.”

“You admitted I was a worthy opponent.” Her hands moved down to her ankles. 

“I said no such thing.”

“You implied it. I’m well-versed in interpreting your veiled compliments.”

“Whatever you say, Ingrid.” He rolled his eyes, shaking his head with a glint of a smile on his face. “Are you ready to lose to me again?”

“Ugh, no. I’m starving!” 

“...of course you are. What happened to _ ‘in order to be a proper Knight I need to exercise self-control’ _?”

“That’s different.” She held her quietly rumbling stomach. “I can’t train on an empty stomach.”

“You’re whining.”

“I’m _ hungry _.” 

“That doesn’t change the fact that _ you’re whining _.”

“I don’t see how the two are confl–“

“Whoa, children, children, please! No maiming in the courtyard.”

The two ceased their bickering to sigh and look in the direction of the voice. 

It was Sylvain’s, of course. He came sauntering down the path leading out of the courtyard towards the front gardens, red hair sticking up in all manner of directions, smirking in that way he did. Felix struggled to put it into words exactly how he looked; it was a mixture of a false sense of superiority propelled by his age, and actual fondness. 

“You can’t hurt anyone with a wooden sword, stupid,” Felix replied when Sylvain finally reached them. 

Sylvain hummed in response, putting his hands in his pockets. “I beg to differ.”

“Why, exactly?”

“Uh...” he looked away from the pair, suddenly gaining interest in the shaft of Ingrid’s lance. He ought to focus more on his training; some genuine interest would go a long way for him. “You know Alice, the niece of the late Baron Bartels?”

“I don’t like where this is going.”

Ignoring Ingrid, he continued. “Last week I made her _ super pissed _ . She was fuming. We were at her father’s training grounds, and well...” he pulled up his shirt sleeve and pointed to a dark mark on his upper arm. “She did _ this. _”

“That?” It was the sort of mark you could get from knocking your elbow on a table too hard. 

“With a training lance, no less.”

“I dare say you had it coming.”

“Oh, he definitely did.” Ingrid nodded passionately, staring Sylvain right in the face. “And for all the flirting he does, he’s lucky that I haven’t done the same yet!” She barked, and then she exhaled, closing her eyes for a moment. “Sorry. If I’m to be a proper knight—“

“_ I need to exercise self-control, _” Sylvain drawled with her in a high-pitched voice. “Sheesh, we know. Heck, I’m sure even the cooks know at this point.”

“And speaking of cooks,” she suddenly perked back up. She had somehow completely ignored his taunts. “Let’s go and eat!”

“Thinking with your stomach again?” He asked, holding out a hand for Ingrid to take. 

“As always,” Felix said before she could refute it. Sure, she had her reasons, but it wasn’t very becoming of her. Girl or not, noble or commoner, nobody liked a sloth. 

She simply sighed in response before taking Sylvain’s hand and getting up. 

“Coming, Felix?”

“Tch.” There was no use staying out here by himself. What was he supposed to do, spar with thin air? If anything, he would be roped into some noble nonsense by his mother. In the grand scheme, it was entirely pointless, and he had no idea why she demanded he did those things. “Yes.” 

“Good. C’mon.” In one swift movement, he slung his arms around both of their shoulders. Despite Felix’s initial squirming, he didn't mind it that much. 

“Say, Felix, that kitchen assistant that your father just hired is—“

“Don’t talk about the staff like that, Sylvain!” Ingrid delivered a quick slap to the arm around her right shoulder. “It’s not proper.”

“Okay, sorry, I won’t.” He winked at Felix behind Ingrid’s back. “_ I promise _.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love the childhood relationship between these dudes. I know I promised Dimitri in the tags, but he won't be around for a while.
> 
> If there are any glaring grammatical errors in this, please tell me. I've read it over a substantial amount of times, but sometimes you just can't catch them.
> 
> If you want to scream about this great game with me, my tumblr is  
ephemeralnerd. Please don't hesitate. I need friends.


	2. Brothers. Who Needs Them?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which all three Gautier men make Bad Choices.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took a few liberties with Miklan's personality, since the small bit we saw in game was not much to go from. 
> 
> Content warning: underage drinking, mild violent threat, references to childhood trauma

CHAPTER TWO: BROTHERS. WHO NEEDS THEM? 

“You really must send my compliments to the cook,” Ingrid said to one of the guards as he oversaw their meal. This sort of thing made Sylvain squirm a little. Why did a member of the downstairs staff have to present wherever in the house they went to? It gave him a lingering, disquieting feeling that he was constantly being _ watched _. Well, he was, being the heir of House Gautier and all, but heck. Can a man get a bit of privacy with his friends? Apparently not. 

“Of course, Miss Ingrid.” 

“Thank you.” She sighed happily. “This vegetable pasta salad is the best I’ve had in a long while. I’m sure I could eat it all the time and not get sick of it!”

“That’s an exaggeration,” Felix interjected, straight-faced (as usual), and completely lacking humour or an understanding of language devices (as usual). 

“Is she not entitled to a little verbal embroidery now and then?”

“What? Tch, stop showing off.”

Gasping (admittedly, a little too dramatically), Sylvain set down his cutlery, clutching his chest. “Me? Show off? _ I don’t think I ever could _.”

“...”

“...that was sarcasm, by the way—“

“I know.”

“...Just sayin’. Y’know, since you’re completely dense to the finer parts of the language. I bet your literature teacher thinks you’re amazing.”

Felix was too easy to wind up. Kid took absolutely everything at face value. Sure it meant that just about every joke went soaring over his little head, but Sylvain wouldn’t have it any other way. The day Felix gained a sense of humour was the day Sylvain settled down with a girl of his choice. 

“...shut up and eat.”

Sylvain chuckled and picked his fork back up. “Sure thing, _ Master Felix _.”

“You can’t make fun of me when you get called the same thing.”

“Not in two months’ time. When I turn sixteen, I’ll be _ Mister _Sylvain, and I’ll be able to do whatever I want.”

“Not really.”

“My parents will let me drink, and stay out later, which means _ more time for the ladies _—“

“Please, spare me.”

“It’ll be great, just you wa—“

The door opened and the butler entered, carrying a silver plate with a single letter laying upon it. 

“Master Sylvain,” he said, striding over to the table. Felix gave him a look that said, _ ‘ha ha, not yet’ _, and Sylvain cursed the uncanny timing. 

“A letter has been sent from your father.”

“My father?” He asked as he picked the letter up, inspecting it. Why was he writing now, when he was in the throes of Kingdom business?

“Yes.”

“Hmm.” Neglecting the letter opener, he jammed his finger underneath the Gautier seal, opening it and rushing to read the contents:

_ Hello, son. _

_ I hope you are doing splendidly. I trust that Felix, Glenn, and Ingrid are keeping you out of trouble, yes? You know I am fond of you— _

Yes, the man didn’t ever pull his punches, if by punches you meant showers of praise and affection.

_ —but you must curb your skirt-chasing tendencies. I already know you will be a marvellous Margrave once I am in the ground, but it would be good for your future. _

_Cutting to the point, I’m afraid I’m writing about Miklan._

Oh. 

_ Once again, the boy has disappeared. We had just finished our visit to the new Baron Bartels – who is a lovely boy – when he absconded. It is shameful and embarrassing that this has happened, but I am writing to ask you and your companions to be vigilant. By the time this letter has reached you, he would be far away from Bartels. He may turn up in Fraldarius territory with that terrible group of roughs again. I shudder at the thought. Perhaps you have a better idea of where he is than I. _

_ I am sorry that his unruly behaviour is going to cause you grief. I do wish he would just fall in line and do what is expected of him. _

What was expected of him was to roll over and bequeath his birthright, so he couldn’t fault the resistance. 

_ Sometimes I wonder why he can’t be more like Glenn. _

_ Send my regards to all, _

_ Father. _

Right. So, Miklan, the bastard, was causing trouble again (no surprise there). It looked like the saga of “Miklan is Being a Sore Loser and Everyone Suffers For It” was set to continue into its second act. What a shit stage play. It must have been silly wishful thinking to think Miklan would calm down after a while. 

Nope. Nah, of course not. Miklan did not do calm. 

“Sylvain…?”

He looked up from the letter to see Felix and Ingrid staring at him.

“What’s happened?” Ingrid asked, her voice registering faintly in the back of his mind. He shook his head slightly to clear it. 

“Miklan being Miklan.” Setting the letter down, he picked up his fork again. His pasta was sort of cold now. Oh well. It’s not like he was hungry anymore. 

“Oh no.”

“He’s ran off again. During a noble visit no less.” Shaking his head at his wasted meal made him look a little silly, but he could barely look up to meet their eyes. “Father was writing, asking for our vigilance in case he turns up and causes a stir in the territory.” 

“I’ll make sure to tell Glenn, so we can do something,” Ingrid said, mouth set into a hard line. Sylvain glanced up over at Felix and saw the same dour expression on his face. 

Something in him clicked, and any emotion was pushed to the dark recesses of his mind. It was sure to rear its ugly head later, but for now—

“Ah, don’t worry about it,” he set his fork down again with a little more pep. “He won’t do anything serious. If anything, he’s just being a little bitch.”

“_ Sylvain _.”

“Oops. Sorry,” he said, glancing at the guard, hoping he hadn’t heard him. “Well, like I was saying, it’s nothing. He’s just being an attention-seeking dummy.” 

“We should still inform the–“

“If it’s nothing,” Felix interrupted, “then it’s nothing. I trust he knows Miklan far better than you.”

Ingrid paused, and then nodded. “Alright. If you’re sure.”

“Oh, I’m sure.” 

“Alright. Well, don’t let your pasta go to waste.”

Silence fell upon them, and it seemed to be the punctuating period, spelling an end to the matter. Thank the Goddess, because he didn’t want to be talking about that any more than he had to. 

Maybe someday, in another life, _ “I wish he would fall in line,” _ would be _ “I wish he would come home safe.” _ The curses against one’s one son for uncontrollable things would become praise, and that the focus of his parents would shift to more important things.

* * *

Gladly, he shifted his own focus onto the girl sat distantly to the right of their table.

Her eyes were so brown. Unfortunately, Sylvain didn’t have any poems up his sleeve about brown eyes… or did he? Eh, whatever, he would cross that bridge when he came to it. For now, all he could do was do his best at preventing his gaze from blurring and slipping away. 

_ “Thank you, Duchess Fraldarius.” _

_ “Please, call me by my name.” Felix’s mother smiled at the trio. “Just remember, no misbehaving, and you must be back by nine.” _

_ “Of course.” _

_ “And Felix, I can trust you to behave yourself?” _

_ “You don’t need to ask.” _

_ “I know.” She reached out to tweak his cheek. Sure, he swatted her away and rolled his eyes, but Sylvain was sure he secretly loved it. “Stay safe, children.” _

And if by safe she meant safely in the arms of this gal who was very obviously giving him looks? Well, then he was obeying her every word. By the end of the night, mark his works, he was going to have bagged himself a girlfriend. 

Once again, they found themselves around a table, finally free from the prying eyes of Fraldarius staff. They were just three friends enjoying a meal in a stuffy corner in a village restaurant.

Except…

Of course, they weren’t. 

Even if he wasn’t being scrutinised by the people Felix’s parents chose to employ, he was most definitely being examined by everyone else in the _ entire region _. 

In the streets, whispers arose._ “Isn’t that the new heir of Margrave Gautier? I’ve heard that…” _

That he’s tried it with every girl in the Gautier region? That he kicked his brother off the proverbial throne (he kind of wished it was a real one… regular old chairs were boring), simply by being born? That he was currently _ steaming drunk, completely off his face, and utterly bladdered, _ all thanks to that vindictive bitch brother of his?

He wouldn’t have been in this state if Miklan didn’t show his face. Funny to think that daddy dearest was finally right, the one time Sylvain was convinced he wasn’t. 

Goddess, where were they…? Ah, yup, they were on their way out of the Royal Gallery to find a carriage, being stared at like pegasi at a petting zoo, discussing whatever inane topics he had conjured up to fill the silence. For reasons he couldn’t get his head around, both Felix and Ingrid had been super, super quiet since he got the news. It wasn’t their problem to worry about, and he really wished they would perk up a little. 

But despite any attempts at levity, the duo remained like a silly pair of children who had been denied a bag of hard candies each. Well, maybe not hard candies in Felix’s case, but... the simile worked the same. He’d hoped a trip to admire some fine art could lift the spirits, at least a little. Did they know how many smiles he had to flash at Felix’s mother in order to convince her to let them go out? His face actually started to cramp. He could feel the muscles seizing up as he bullshitted his way through the “spiritual” benefits of art and how it “produced a well-rounded character”.

Duchess Fraldarius ate it up, easy, for some reason. Maybe she was humouring him, accepting such a stupidly long monologue from a fifteen-year-old and all. Still, she was a cool lady, far cooler than his own mother, for sure, and so she let them go.

Felix had rolled his eyes (again, poor kid was going to start suffering from sass-induced headaches) at the thought of the visit, but three people against one meant that he had to haul ass alongside them. 

They got to their destination soon enough without incident, apart from Sylvain spotting Lord Lonato’s niece who he’d dated around the Ethereal Moon for… what, a week? The expression on her face showed that she was _ still not over it, _and he wasn’t about to bear the brunt of festering heartbreak. He didn’t mean to hurt her. Seriously, seeing her cry the first time was basically heart-wrenching, but they just weren’t meant to be. 

One day, his princess would come. Little did Sylvain-of-three-hours-ago know, eh?

Inside the art gallery, everyone was still staring. Heck, even the paintings were peering at them as they perused. What were they thinking? Were they disappointed? Inwardly sighing as Felix could barely fix his eyes to the chivalric images of old Blaiddyd? 

Art had a way of capturing Sylvain like nothing much else could. Okay, well, maybe an exceptionally pretty girl could do the same, but he was trying to make a point about how Felix could’ve been more appreciative, so never mind pretty girls. 

...He never thought he would find himself saying that. Whoa. 

Luckily enough for him, Ingrid had gotten rid of whatever was gagging her before. There must have been something about that depiction of the Goddess that made her tongue all loose, and Sylvain was not complaining. Not one bit! Silence was an awkward thing, and considering the events of the afternoon, she was probably thinking (and overthinking) about the situation with Miklan. _ Speak for yourself _, she would probably tell him if she could hear his thoughts (and for the fact she couldn’t, he was eternally grateful). 

Speaking for himself, he also was doing the same thing. Poring every word of the letter in his mind, whenever silence permitted it. 

So, he decided to pull a switcheroo on silence, because how was he going to let silence control him? He was going to control the silence instead. 

He glanced at a particularly large and bog-standard depiction of Saint Cethleann. “Wow, that’s just beautiful, don’t you think?” 

“Well—“

“You don’t have to tell me,” he sent a wink her way. “I know, I’m more gorgeous.”

Felix muttered something about Sylvain having his head in his ass. He would have to disagree about that one. If he did, he would definitely have smelled it by now. 

And even though Sylvain was recounting all this _ in his head, _ he somehow felt like he was going on a tangent...

Nothing much else happened until they made their way out and towards some restaurant. 

And then, suddenly, everything happened, all at once, in the worst way possible!

Miklan! It was Miklan! Of course, it just had to be, you guessed it…

_ MIKLAN! _

Minding your own business had never been so deadly. And truly, they were just doing that. Their carriage had dropped them a ten-minute walk from their destination, and so they were just walking through a quiet garden trail. Walking, talking, doing regular things, nothing that showed they were nobility, and still, they were found. 

And by found, he meant being held at clearly-stolen-and-yet-still-blunt knifepoint. 

Sylvain had Ingrid and Felix stood behind him whilst he stared the wielder in the face, taking in the long scar that ran from one end of his face to another, and the same ginger eyebrows he himself had. 

They’d been through this. If Miklan did show up, they were to keep their mouths shut, no amateur heroics here, thank you very much, and let him do the talking. That way, they’d all escape in one piece. 

“Hi.”

Shit greeting, but his brain was more focused on Felix’s squirming behind him. Now was not the time for him to practice his battle skills. 

“Hey, baby bro.”

_ Eugh _, he hated when he called him that. 

“Could you please put the knife down, Miklan? None of us are armed, so this is an unfair fight.” Sylvain slowly raised his shaking arms above his head. 

“What are you kids up to?” It seemed like Miklan refused his request, as his hand remained holding the weapon. His eyes drifted either side of Sylvain, probably eyeing up the pair behind him. Well, he should’ve kept his eyes to himself, because one of the two was engaged, and the other was probably infatuated with his sword. 

EW. That was a gross joke, Sylvain apologised to them in his head. 

“What are _ you _ up to? Running away from Bartels like that?”

His big brother laughed a sinister laugh, and he was glad that nobody was around, because they would be whispering that one rumour (well, truth) he wished was kept under wraps: _ Did you know that the first son of Margrave Gautier tried to kill his younger brother? _

Sylvain had heard that laugh many times, one of which was when he was in the bottom of a well. If he wasn’t feeling Ingrid’s breath on his neck, or the sharp evening air, he could’ve been tricked into thinking he was back there. It was dark enough, after all. 

“Well, wouldn’t you like to know?”

Ow, the edge. The condescension in his voice was starting to rival the way Glenn spoke to Felix sometimes. Big brothers, eh?

“Uh, yeah.”

”It was boring. They didn’t need me, anyway, since I’m not going to be involved in any of that no more.”

_ Anymore. Come on, mother didn’t pay the best teachers in the Kingdom for you to not use proper grammar. _

“So you just left?”

“Yep. Then I made my way over here to have some fun with friends, and see my favourite person.”

“By fun, I assume you mean terrorising innocent villagers?” Sylvain knew the whole “favourite person” thing was a bad attempt at joking, so he didn’t bother addressing it. 

“How did you know?”

“...just an inkling.”

“Anyway, enough chat. I need you to write to daddy dearest and tell them I’m safe. I don’t need a search party.”

“Are you?”

“That’s for me to know. _ Just do it _, okay?”

The rational part of Sylvain’s brain was screaming _ no, don’t do it, why should you lie for him? It’s three against one, you could easily take him on, right? _

Unfortunately, as it was most times, the irrational part was screaming louder:

_ Do it. He’ll leave you all alone, and you’ll all be safe and sound. _

Yeah, no, that wasn’t true. 

“Sure, sure, whatever, I’ll do it.” He flashed a pacifying smile at the knife, as if it had will of its own to not hack at his carotid. “Can we go now?” 

Desperation wasn’t something he liked to show in public (and no, him trying to get a girlfriend wasn’t desperation), but he was close to showing it right now. And if he wasn’t panicking right out of his skin, he would’ve asked the more salient question of “how did you find us?”

But he _ was _panicking. 

Miklan looked him up and down. His hand was unwavering, his gaze seemingly unending. Dude certainly didn’t have any qualms about threatening the heirs of three kingdom houses. Sure, Ingrid’s didn’t really matter, but she was to be married to Glenn Fraldarius, who was a big fucking deal…

“Go. Get lost.”

If Sylvain wasn’t ready to run for his life, he would’ve hit back with something far wittier than “why don’t you?”

* * *

So, here he was. After a plate of spicy fish dango and 2 tankards of what tasted like apple cider, he was ready to make his move. Felix and Ingrid’s voices were mingling with the background noise, melting into the haze that was starting to become more and more overbearing. 

Time to shoot his shot, he supposed, and so he got up. 

The world turned sharply upon its axis. 

For a split second he felt himself lurch, and the floor was very close until something pulled him back up. It must’ve been Ingrid because Felix would’ve let him fall on his ass and embarrass himself before he even got a word in. 

Mumbling a thanks, he steadied himself and sauntered over as confidently as he could with a thick head. 

So, there she was, sat with some friends in all her beauty; big brown eyes and...brown hair, and...a pretty brown blouse, goddess be damned, he really needed to improve his bank of colour-oriented compliments, because as he was racking his brain for ways to woo her, he had nothing. 

Why were poets always rattling on about sky blue eyes and hair like the sun? What about hair that was the colour of a Morfis plum?

“Hey.” Starting slow was probably the best thing to do. 

She turned her head to look at him, a smirk playing on her face. 

“Hi.”

“I couldn’t help but notice you from my table,” he attempted to not-slur. “You’re beautiful.”

She laughed and tucked her hair behind her ear. And if Sylvain could call on his previous experiences for reference, this was a good sign.

“Thank you,” she replied. Her friends were looking at him, either dumbfounded that he, Sylvain Jose Gautier, had the gall to do this, insulted at his audacity, or ready to throw a drink on him. “You’re not bad yourself.”

Ooh, personality. He was glad that she was starting some kind of banter because he didn’t have it in him to joke. What happened to… what was the term, Brigid Pride? Something about getting all courageous and silver-tongued when you’ve got some drinks down you. 

“I’m Sylvain Jose Gautier.” 

She giggled again. “I know. Olivia.”

“Olivia what?”

“Nothing as impressive as yours, so don’t you worry.”

Right. Right. He supposed he had that coming. 

“Would you like a drink?”

“That would be nice.” She got up and followed him… somewhere. 

The rest of that encounter failed to imprint itself in Sylvain’s inebriated brain. All he registered was two hands, one on each of his shoulders, steering him out of the sluggish heat and into the cold night. The air hit him like a pillow round the head, knocking him further into confusion. He heard their voices again, even further away than the last time, sharper than the last time, angrier than the last time, a lot more profane than the last time. He made out the word “fuck” at least six times, and knew that Felix has been eavesdropping on Glenn again. 

His feet were working by themselves, barely. Everything looked the same, but thankfully, he saw no people. Just trees and the sky and more trees and more sky and the stars, and what was that, oh, the chapel clock tower. 

Somehow through the sludge, he heard the clock tower bell. Going once… twice… three times… four…

All the way to ten. 

Oh shit. _ Ohhh _, for the sake of all that’s holy–

May the goddess strike him down in his place. At least, before he vomits over his good shoes. 

* * *

Once again Sylvain thinks: _ oh shit _. 

Suddenly all the alcohol has drained itself from Sylvain’s body, and he is very sober.

Glenn is staring him in the face.

“What exactly do you call this?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies if this chapter was a little sprawling (being almost three times the length of the last one). I was trying to emulate drunken rambling (despite never having been drunk myself) and you, reader, will be the judge of how well I've executed that. Also, Sylvain got drunk off cider because he's a kid (and a lightweight).
> 
> Come talk about 3H with me on my newly-made twitter
> 
> Next Chapter: Good People Give Good Advice


	3. Good People Give Good Advice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Glenn lectures like an angry parent, and Ingrid contemplates what it means to grow older.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glenn lectures like an angry parent, but I guess that's what caring big brothers do.
> 
> Also, I took liberties and gave him a middle name, since Intsys decline to provide us with such important information.

CHAPTER THREE: Good People Give Good Advice 

As Ingrid looked over at Sylvain, she didn’t know whether to pat his back so he didn’t choke or throttle him so he did. 

Fortunately for her, any throttling looked like it was going to be done by Glenn, as he glared stalagmites at the guilty party with frigid blue eyes. 

“Sylvain. Were you drunk last night?”

It was a bit of a silly question. Ingrid hardly considered herself mature, let alone worldly – living near Ailell, with a father like hers made it difficult to be – but even she knew the symptoms of a heavy night of drinking. 

Or, in Sylvain’s case, a drink or two – or three, or four, he was really knocking those back – of cider. 

As he scraped his bacon back and forth on his plate, Ingrid could hear his laboured breaths from the other side of the dining table. Pale and _ slightly shaking _, it seemed he couldn’t eat. All he could do was gulp down cup after cup of water. So much that the pitcher was almost empty. 

There wasn’t any staff around to refill with Glenn being present, so she had hoped he would save some for the rest of them. 

Sylvain truly had been stupid the previous night. His drinking – stupid. His flirting – stupid. The fact that he or neither her nor Felix bothered to take a timepiece with them – stupid. 

All they could do was watch whilst he sidled up to that village girl, far gone. Well, Felix had made some less-than-kind comments about Sylvain and his tendencies, but they just had to leave him to it. It seemed like he had been doing this for a lifetime, even since they were little — and when he came onto her sweet old granny of all people, may she rest in peace — and so they knew how to ride it out. 

Trying her best to engross herself in a conversation with Felix was difficult when she could hear Sylvain’s voice in the back of the room, saying things she only ever read in those books in the library that her father told her not to read — she read them anyway — and was doing her best not to squirm.

Squirming was exactly what Sylvain was doing in the present, under the harsh heat of Glenn’s gaze he had no chance of escaping scot-free. 

“Me? Drunk? No, haha, _ no way. _ I think I came down with something.” His voice became adenoidal. It didn’t sound much like anything except someone who was trying to fake being ill. 

“Sylvain. Were. You. Drunk? Don’t lie to me.” Glenn put his mug down with such force that it should’ve at least chipped. 

“...” The boy to her left could say nothing, and do nothing but scratch his neck absently. 

“You could have gotten hurt. Your stupid ass could’ve gotten them killed.”

Ingrid really couldn’t afford to die. Besides the obvious eternal expanse of non-existence, she was needed to pass on the crest of Daphnel, both in Faerghus and elsewhere. As horrid as it sometimes was, she understood the need to keep herself safe and not in mortal danger. It was funny how being a knight called for exactly the opposite of that. 

Mutually exclusive, the two seemed to be. 

It was pleasant to think that if she _ didn’t _ have a crest, Glenn would still be upset if she died. And of course, Felix, Sylvain, and Dimitri would be too.

“I’m really sorry, Glenn.”

“Don’t apologise to me, say it to them. I’m sure Felix was scared shitless–” 

“–_ I was not _–"

“–Having to drag you back here.”

While this was a serious situation, Ingrid couldn’t help but smile inside. Sibling jibes, she was no stranger to, but the fact that Glenn _ didn’t _ think her childish enough to be scared by a little alcohol warmed her heart. 

Goddess, what would her father think if he bore witness to this scene? He wouldn’t think, would he? He would instead whisk her out of the room as quickly as possible as if even the mention of alcohol were to poison her insides. 

“Felix did a good job, actually,” she added, looking over at the opposite side of the table to him. For a moment, he brightened up – not a phrase she usually used to describe Felix – and was smiling at her. 

She thought it was strange, as he didn’t do compliments. But before she got a second glance at the rare scene, it was gone. 

“Thanks,” he replied, looking directly into his breakfast. “It wasn’t a big deal.”

“Don’t diminish this, Felix. I know you could hold your own against someone untrained, but,” Glenn pointed at the accused with his fork. “Sylvain needs to know that once you turn sixteen, you can’t magically hold your liquor.” 

“Don’t worry,” Sylvain said, slightly yellower than he was a moment ago. “I learnt that the hard way.”

“You’re lucky our parents left me to lock up last night, or else you’d be far deeper in it than you are. Honest, just looking at your intoxicated ass made me want to slap you sober.” 

So far, Ingrid had blocked that scenario out of her mind. She didn’t really want to think about Sylvain’s imminent death at the hands of an angry Uncle Rodrigue, let alone an angry Glenn. Everybody knew they were both far stronger than him. 

“Gee, I said I’m sorry. And seriously, I really am.”

Glenn rolled his eyes as he cut a bone out of his kipper, but then nodded, hair falling forward, face softening. 

“I know you are. Just don’t do it again, alright?”

“Alright.” Though the issue had been relieved, Sylvain continued to play with his meal, a habit he seemed to be forming as of late. 

“Aren’t you going to eat that?” Ingrid asked, filling the silence. 

“I will...eventually.” He swallowed slowly. “But first, I think I’m going to go back to bed.”

He was out of the door, his footsteps thundering up the stairs before anyone could stop him. 

* * *

“Sylvain? Are you alright?”

“Hm?” He groaned. Ingrid could hear him flop out of bed and towards the door. She would’ve gone after him earlier, but Glenn told her to leave him be. And as usual, it seemed he was correct. There was no use trying to talk to Sylvain when he was half-asleep — or rather, wholly hung-over. 

“It’s Ingrid.”

“Oh. Yep, I’m _ just fine. _”

“You don’t sound fine to me. Glenn wants to know if you’re coming down for lunch.”

“Hngh.”

“Is that a yes, or a no?”

“I think it’s a no, but—” he coughed. “Did we walk _ all _ the way home last night?”

“No, we got a carriage. Felix demanded he pay extra to keep the driver quiet.”

“Right…” Sylvain’s voice trailed off. “I hope Glenn doesn’t know that part.”

“Me too.” 

“Tell him I’m alright. I’m just writing some letters.”

They both knew what that meant. Neither of them dared to breach the subject. 

“Okay, sure.” Ingrid breathed a sigh of relief as she walked away from the guest room and down the stairs. If Sylvain wasn’t alright, she wasn’t sure how she’d deal with it.

* * *

Francine nuzzled into Ingrid’s hand as she fed her a carrot. Somehow the weather had turned on them – a far cry from yesterday – and she found herself tending to the stables with Glenn. Speaking candidly, she was still sore from sparring, and since she wasn’t planning on Felix knowing that – _ “I told you so, Ingrid. Should’ve stretched properly, Ingrid.” _ she could hear his voice already – this was a good escape. 

“At this rate, you might as well take her for your own.”

“I couldn’t.” She stroked her snowy mane and scratched underneath her chin. She was such a beautiful horse – and undoubtedly cost a fortune. 

“She likes you far more than she likes me. We went out for a ride two weeks ago, and I ended up in a bush. Who needs a horse that tosses you on your ass in the middle of battle?”

“That’s true, but there are so many other one.”

Glenn hummed. “She’s not going anywhere else. Felix hates riding just about more than he hates Saghert and Cream Sunday.”

“That much? Well, I’m not surprised.”

“Yeah. Me neither. If I were him, I’d still be terrified of the creatures.” He moved to the next horse, a brown mare called Romy, and picked up a curry comb. “Mother and father have their own steeds too... I’ll talk to your father about it.”

“Please do! He’ll listen to you far more than he will me.” Picking up a body brush, Ingrid stroked long, gentle strokes across Francine’s back. She couldn’t let herself get too attached to her. With a winter of watery soup behind him, shelling out money for room for another horse would be the furthest thing on her father’s mind.

Yeah. She should have stopped being so selfish. 

“He should listen to you more.”

“Thank you. You should tell him that too.”

“Alright."

“Wait, don’t! Not really.”

“As if I actually would. I’m meant to be in his good graces.”

“You could never not be. To him, you’re the saviour of House Galatea.”

She rolled her sleeves up and then grabbed a rake from behind her. Mucking out was never pleasant, but somebody had to do it, and she wasn’t banking on Felix dropping his sword to come and tend to horses. 

“Ah, I don’t think so.” Glenn shook his head, navy locks billowing. “I’m just a knight.”

“_ Just _?” It was now Ingrid’s turn to shake her head but in incredulity. “Don’t forget you’ve been a knight for two whole years. And you’re only seventeen.”

“I know I am. It’s just… King Lambert knighting me hasn’t changed _ me _, if you get what I’m saying.”

“But you’re a knight! You’re prestigious now. You’re _ Sir _Glenn Julien Fraldarius. That matters.”

“I know, and it’s a great honour.” He said, tone nearing deadpan. He had a look of resignation that Ingrid couldn’t quite place, or understand. Being a knight was the best thing that could happen to a noble of Faerghus, and for it to happen with Glenn so young...well, she could only imagine that he should’ve been happy.

After a moment of quiet, he piped back up. “I’m worried about Sylvain.” 

“Why?”

“He was very reckless last night. I’ve never seen him do anything like that before. Have you?”

Ingrid thought. Sylvain’s usual escapades included seeing how many girls he could date at once – and the answer was four, Seiros help him whenever he saw any of them again – or hiding all of Felix’s swords and calling it a “scavenger hunt” when he had to find them again. 

“No. But my guess is he’s just excited to be sixteen. Older.”

“Hmm. Maybe.” Glenn put down the grooming kit and put his hand on Ingrid’s shoulder. “Don’t be in any rush to grow, alright?”

She turned to smile at him, to enjoy the rare touch. 

“Glenn, have you seen Sylvain’s poetry–”

They both turned towards the door. Felix was stood there, training sword in his hand, gripped in a manner where Ingrid thought it might splinter, like all those times that Dimitri snapped his lance in two. He was also very red. That must have been from him training so hard.

“Never mind. You two carry on doing… what it was you were doing. I’ll find the book myself.”

“Wait, which book?“ Glenn craned his neck to look at his little brother. But he’d gone. 

“Well, that was a little strange.” Ingrid stared at the once-more closed stable door.

“Felix, wanting anything to do with poetry?”

“I guess stranger things have happened…?”

“Like Felix being flustered.”

“Yes, that was just weird.”

“He thought he walked in on something,” Glenn stated plainly, and Ingrid recoiled.

“Like what?”

“Tch. Nothing like _ that _. Just some kind of display of affection. He is immune to all kinds of feelings, after all.”

“Yes, Felix has never been much of a romantic. Remember when you had to explain to him what the engagement really meant?” She chuckled and began shovelling dirty hay. “He looked like he wanted to disappear.” Ingrid supposed she sympathised. If either of her brothers was to be engaged to one of her friends, it probably would change things between them.

“Heh. I remember. Well, he’ll have to settle down with _ someone _ someday. Though he may be sad to hear it, he can’t stick his dick in that sword father brought him from Zoltan. That would cause him more pain than it’s worth.”

“...Glenn, that’s disgusting.” 

If there was anything she could criticise her fiancée for, it was that he was so… gauche. Sure, he could curtail his language, turn his filter on whenever it mattered, but the dissonance between perfect-knight Glenn and foul-mouthed Glenn was something Ingrid wished didn’t exist. How could he be such a hailed figure in the Kingdom when he made phallic jokes on the regular? Imagine if he accidentally said something like that in front of His Majesty. Imagine!

“It’s true.”

She supposed it was true. The idea of Felix having a wife was not one she entertained often. While, of course, people change, Felix was such a static little boy — don’t let him hear her say that, but she _ was _ taller than him — in all his stubbornness and single-mindedness.

It just seemed as if he was never going to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PSA: I know next to nothing about horses. I did research; I hope the horse-grooming bit wasn't too offensively incorrect. 
> 
> Also, it is a tad bit difficult to make Ingrid and Glenn fond of each other without the dynamic being creepy. But then again, the concept of being engaged from age 0 is also a little unsavoury.  
[Come witness me wax poetic about the amazing music in three houses!](https://twitter.com/ephemeralnerd)
> 
> Next Chapter: I Like You A Lot...


	4. I Like You A Lot...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having practiced abstinence long enough, Sylvain goes on a date with Random Village Girl, hoping to lift his spirits. However, as a member of House Gautier, things never go well for him for an extended amount of time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OC ALERT OC ALERT
> 
> I haven't updated this in ages! I haven't abandoned this, I've just been doing a lot of planning - thirty-two chapters' worth, to be specific. 
> 
> Also, I proof-read every chapter like 50 times because I have anxiety about it being bad: too slow, too fast, too insignificant to be included. I'm slowly learning not to care as much, but it's hard.
> 
> Very small vomit mention at the end, by the way.

_“Are you going to see her again?”_

_“Who?” He felt genuinely confused for a second, and then his brain seemed to start working. “Oh, Olivia. Well…” he put his hands in his pockets. His expression perked up, and he pulled his left hand back out, clutching a piece of paper. _

_“What is it?”_

_Sylvain chuckled as he read it. “Where to find her. She says next week, same place. Score!” He then winced, clearly disturbed by the volume of his own voice. The headache hadn’t quite waned. _

_“And you’re going to go?”_

_“Of course. I bet she’s dying to see me.”_

_“Don’t flatter yourself.”_

_“It’s the truth. You just hate to see it, Felix.”_

It really was the truth! Now Sylvain was standing in the same place as he was last week, only far more sober, thankfully. Being drunk was not the thrilling experience that Miklan had described. It was rather the opposite, and the comedown was even worse. 

He’d managed to evade the gaze of Felix’s parents the next day. They weren’t dumb, but the many rooms of the Fraldarius estate meant that he could avoid them without strain. Him spending most of the time in his temporary bedroom helped, but really, the whole day was just a vague haze in the past. Even the sting from the grilling he received from Glenn had diminished; it was now a kind of dull pain you felt after a wound had long been cauterised. 

The restaurant was far larger than it had seemed under the suffocating influence of alcohol and lingering feelings of panic. Pleasant, even, with the walls adorned with a few paintings by artists he couldn’t place. 

But forget the paintings. 

Eager as ever (or as he remembered… relying on his memory from that night was not sensible), Olivia was already there waiting for him. 

She looked pretty, with her long dark hair and smoky eyes, but he couldn’t _just_ tell her that. Something far more eloquent was in order to butter her up (and so she could see he wasn’t a sleaze who got drunk to seduce women). Lately, he had been suffering from a serious deficiency in the vitamin V areas. It had been too long (read: the week and a half he’d been in Fraldarius territory) since he got down with a hot lady. 

Well, they never quite “got down”, but he was close enough, and was edging towards it every day. 

He’d been reading some more poetry in search of the perfect line to say to her. It had to be eloquent, romantic, dare he say _sexy_. If his looks hadn’t already sold her on him, his words had to. They had to. They worked multiple times before, so why wouldn’t they work now? The witty allure of Sylvain Jose Gautier certainly hadn’t faded, (would it ever?) and so he expected good (if not the best) results from whatever he formulated.

“Hi, Sylvain.”

“Hey, Olivia…” _come on, don’t sound dumb. _“You look…” _DON’T— _“Nice.”

“So do you.” She patted the wooden chair next to her. Since he was dressed in the most common clothes he’d brought with him, something about that made his insides warm up, distracting from the mental asskicking he was giving himself. “Sit, will you?”

“Sure.” He sat, ready to correct his blunder. “And when I said you looked nice; I mean _more-than-nice_. Like, you look extremely beautiful.”

“You told me that last week when you were clearly drunk.”

Ah, shit. He supposed she had a right to bring that up, especially when he could not remember anything past that point for the life of him. That was for the best, considering the kind of danger he put them all in. Goddess, he was so reckless, so stupid. 

“I’m sorry about that. But it doesn’t change the fact that you’re stunning. Seriously, I could get lost in your eyes…” he allowed his voice to trail away as he brought a hand up to her face.

She pried it away with a twinkle in her eye, resting it back on the table. “Smooth talker, aren’t you?”

“I pride myself on it.”

“Is that some kind of noble thing?”

“Well, I guess. We’re all supposed to be, quote-unquote ‘eloquent’.”

“No, I meant like a crest thing. Does it increase your charm or something?”

“_Oh._ Well, not all nobles have crests.”

“But you do.”

Miklan took this opening to invade his mind again. He was hardly ‘eloquent’ and never minced words (but neither did Glenn and look how he turned out), especially when it came to Sylvain himself. But there were too many factors contributing to the fact. His brother’s personality seemed to base itself entirely upon the word ‘contrarian’, and it was beyond annoying.

“I do. But people can act, y’know.”

“Oh, I know.” She dithered over the menu a little, reading with her fork before resting it back on the table. “What are you going to order?”

“Eh, I dunno,” he peered over her shoulder at her menu. “I don’t know this place that well.”

“I’d recommend the peach sorbet. It’s super nice.”

“Well, I’m sure you have impeccable taste, so…” he reached out again, this time to wind his arm around her shoulders and cover her hand with his. She didn’t pull away. “I’ll just get whatever you do.”

“Two peach sorbets it is then,” after what could be considered a tender moment, she dragged herself up, away from him and the table. “I guess I’ll go order.”

“I’ll pay?”

She didn’t give him the chance to put a hand in his pockets before she shook her head and left to the counter. 

Bizarre. If anything, he thought that village girls would be eager to fleece him for all he's worth. 

************

It didn’t take two minutes for their food to arrive. 

Stating the obvious, Sylvain said, “Wow, that was quick.” He absently tapped the side of the porcelain bowl. “Are you a magician?”

“No,” Olivia picked up her spoon and started to pick at the dessert in front of her. “I’m just good at using what I’ve got.”

“Yeah?” is all he ended up replying, his tapping ceasing. 

As far as he knew, that wasn’t even meant to be an innuendo, but Sylvain’s teenage brain found a way to make it one. He tried as discreetly as he could to ignore any implications he could’ve found. 

“Don’t be so surprised!” 

‘Surprised’ was not the word he would have used. 

“If you tell the chef that you’re dining with the one and only heir of Margrave Gautier, you’d be surprised how quick the service is,” she said with a wink and a quick taste of her dessert. 

“Oh,” is all he said, again.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never used your status and crest like that.”

“Uh, well, I _haven’t_?” 

“Seriously?” That seemed to cause her shock of the open-mouthed variety.

“I don’t exactly need to. In noble society, basically every major family bears a crest in some shape or form.”

It was true. Every major house in the Kingdom had an heir that possessed one. When Sylvain’s father read the results of the blood test and found out he bore the blessed Crest of Gautier… well, it made national news. Every noble, every commoner, every_body_ in the Kingdom knew. The dumb headline might as well have been **_“Thank the Goddess: House Gautier Conforms To Society!”_**

“So, you’re not special.” 

His father would say otherwise. Miklan however, often aligned himself with that sort of thinking. 

“Does that matter to you?” _The old man doesn’t love you; he loves your blood. If he could bottle it and put it into one of the dead ones before you, he would._

“Oh, no, of course not. To a regular old gal like me, you’re pretty damn special. It must be pretty fun, having a crest.”

“How so?” Choosing to play dumb, Sylvain took a spoon of his sorbet. It was nice, as far as peach-flavoured things went. 

“Oh, come on, you must know. The privileges. You’re a first-class citizen. And you can wield all those cool relics.”

Sylvain had seen the Lance of Ruin hung above the mantlepiece in his father’s study. He would hardly call it cool; the thing was downright creepy. Those weird talon-things on the handle reminded him, most unpleasantly, of toes. He had also heard the stories about what happened to those poor non-crested folks (or not so much poor as stupid, in his family’s opinion) that tried to wield it, back in the days of Loog and King Klaus.

There was never anything much cool about a lance that turned people into demonic beasts.

“Well, you can only really use them for murder, so I don’t think it’s that good of a trade-off. Being able to use some lance in exchange for freedom and all.”

Olivia nodded. “I’m surprised you even managed to meet me here. I thought I’d be sitting and waiting for a man that would never come… As you said, I thought you nobles were held under lock and key.”

“Not quite. You must know that I’m not from around here, and my friend’s folks are way cooler than my own.” _And all-around better people, _but saying that out loud would dampen the mood. 

“So they let you out on a date?”

“They let me out to go to the ‘library’.” He gestured over the word library. “As long as I don’t run into anyone important, I’ll be fine.”

“Important like…?”

“Another lord, or someone like that. “

“Well, you’re entitled to your freedom. I suppose you’ll have to get married soon.”

He grimaced. “I’d like to think that’s a while away.”

“Wasn’t Margravine Gautier married at nineteen?”

_Funny way to say, “wasn’t your mother a child bride?”_ She was, and he preferred to forget the fact. 

“Yes, but things were different then.” Considering Ingrid’s engagement, they hadn’t really. But if even he wasn’t willing to defend the nobility, then nobody was.

“Yeah, whatever. You may as well have fun before you have a ton of kids to carry on the family line. With crests being so diluted these days, you’re gonna have to have a _whole bunch_.”

“Huh.” He thought of his mother again for a moment but stopped before he made himself sad. “Yeah, I suppose so.”

“Are you fond of the idea of marriage?”

Wait, _what? Marriage?_ Whoa, whoa, whoa, _marriage?_

“It’s not like I have a say in whether I do or don’t.” He frowned, then took her hand and motioned for her to stand up. “Say, why don’t we go somewhere more private?”

She smirked, cheeks red. “I like your thinking.”

They didn’t need telling twice to toss a customary tip onto the table and dash out of there. 

************

Fighting against the raging teenage hormones pumping through his body was no laughable feat. 

Sylvain had his hands away from any suggestive locations, choosing to chastely place them between her shoulder blades as their lips and tongues sloppily slipped past one another’s. He squeezed the collar of her shirt and she whined, _oh goddess_, curse his restraint. That sound was going to play in his head all day until he did something about it in the dead of night. He thanked the Goddess. Not just for the fact that he didn’t have to share a room with Felix, but for allowing him to do this…!

The backs of his hands grazed a little against the brick wall. But pain was no longer a thing when he was currently necking Olivia behind some storage outhouse. Her fingers were twined in the tendrils of hair at the nape of his neck, combing through them aimlessly without rhythm. 

They were going to need air eventually, and so she broke away with a sharp pant. (Most unfortunately) Sylvain had to do so too (since kissing requires at least two parties), looking at her with dark and heavy eyes as she recollected her breath. 

Aw man, she was beautiful. Too bad he was never going to see her again. 

“You don’t wait around, do you?”

He supposed that was one way to put it. 

“Nope. But then, neither do you. You could’ve said no.”

“But I didn’t. And,” Olivia once again stopped to allow her heartbeat to regulate and the colour to leave her face. “I enjoyed that. I really did.”

It looked like his actions spoke far more than his words seemed to, and it made for a welcome change. 

“Me too.”

“You certainly know how to give a girl a good time.”

“I wasn’t being pushy, was I?” Sylvain croaked, hand rubbing the back of his warm neck. Hopefully, the cool air would calm him by the time he got back.

“Oh, no. My dad’s a soldier, so I know how to defend myself!”

“A soldier?”

“Yes, he’s a part of Duke Fraldarius’ army, mother sews clothing.”

“Oh, wow.” He would have run some spiel about how much of a great honour it was if those brown irises in front of him hadn’t glazed over. 

“It’s nothing special.” She was apparently, all of a sudden, fixated with her leather boots. “He’ll die one day, probably in combat. I don’t know what we’ll do then.”

Before things got too emotional, this was a good time to take his leave. He checked his pocket watch. 

“Somewhere to be?”

Luckily, he knew he could count on her incessant desire to comment on everything in order to escape and prepare for his journey back home. 

“Actually… yeah. I need to get back before I’m turned into stew,” he said, completely glossing over the fact he was leaving Fraldarius territory and didn’t know when he’d return. “I know there is such a thing as Gautier Cheese Gratin, but I assure you, it’s not usually made of teenage boy.”

She snorted; her mood completely changed. Sylvain thanked the goddess once more. “Yeah, you wouldn’t be good for kissing if you got turned into mincemeat.”

He wasn’t going to be good for kissing some way up the Kingdom. Somehow, out of nowhere, Olivia retrieved a blank strip of paper from her pocket. 

...did she just keep those on her wherever she went? 

Alongside it, out came a pen, and before he knew it, she was leaning up against him, writing something. 

“Write to me.”

_Wowowowow_, okay. This was uncharted territory. 

“That is unless someone’s going to intercept them…?”

“Nope. I’ll make sure they get through just fine.”

“Good, good. I don’t think the honourable Margrave would approve of what I’d put in there.” She winked again, and Sylvain had to stop himself falling apart right there and then.

“Gee, Olivia, when you say stuff like that—”

“Save it! Don’t use all your lines on me now or you won’t have anything to write later. That is, aside from your tales of noble life, things like that.”

He nodded. Was she delusional? Simply trying her luck? As unrealistic as this imagined scenario would be, he let his mind entertain it further. Better to focus on that. 

“Good.” She handed him the piece of paper and he quickly pocketed it, glancing out into the street. “I guess you’ll be taking your leave now.”

“Suppose I will—”

She could never let a man finish his sentences, could she? Launching herself at him (in broad daylight) meant that he couldn’t hit her with the regular _“look, it’s been lovely, but…”_. 

If he were an idiot (and despite Ingrid and Miklan’s words, he wasn’t one) he would think she was an apprentice of Cornelia Arnim’s who ran away from the Royal School of Sorcery and was really good at forbidden mind-reading magic. How else was she able to undercut all his regular plays?

(Actually, the more he thought about it…)

“I’ll miss you,” she mumbled into his chest, voice muffled. 

“Same here.” Whether or not he was telling the truth, he did not know. 

She let go, stepping back and taking a moment to look at him. “Look after yourself. It would be bad form to let the keeper of the Lance of Ruin die, wouldn’t it?”

Goddess. Sylvain couldn’t deal with this anymore. If she mentioned that gross-looking thing one more time, he would vomit on her shoes and not even say sorry.

Before she could call after him, he disappeared into the bustling afternoon market crowd. He was hoping he’d blend in, knowing how the wrath of a girl could manifest itself. Hell truly hath no fury like a woman scorned, even if he would probably never see her again. 

They were worlds apart. She was going to become a merchant or a knight or something common that commoners became. He was going to be presented in court in front of His Majesty in four months. 

She was a village girl; he was a nobleman. 

So. 

Sylvain began to run.

Dashing around the corner to hail a carriage, he hoped that his eventual breathlessness would mask any unease laying in his stomach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hold no qualms about vitamin v, I love writing Sylvain because it's just dumb quip after dumb quip. Obviously he is troubled underneath, but he's one of the characters who hides it well. 
> 
> For all of you who want the ship tag to finally be relevant: things will be picking up soon. And I promise I won't be gone for so long this time.
> 
> Next Chapter: You're Emotionally Challenged.


	5. You're Emotionally Challenged

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felix tries and fails to avoid what has been staring him in the face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh its been a while. perfectionism is the enemy of progress after all. 
> 
> hopefully updates will be more regular, but chapter seven is giving me grief.

Something was not right within Felix Hugo Fraldarius. 

His attempts to pinpoint the problem were met with great difficulty. He’d kept with his sword training, ate three square meals a day, showered regularly, and did _only _the bare minimum of homework that was required of him whilst his governor was away. 

If he had to analyse another tale of Kyphon in his lifetime, might he be excused from tearing the pages of his teacher’s copy from its spine? 

Nothing had changed with his friends. They were all the same; they were _always _the same. 

Dimitri was on the other side of the Kingdom, still trying his damnedest to contact that mystery girl from the Empire. He hadn’t heard from her in two years, but that didn’t kill his persistence. Ultimately, there was little matter about his failed correspondence. He was the Crown Prince. Wherever he went, he would have a myriad of aides trailing him, watching his every move, lest he fell into serious injury. Even if he wanted to, he could never have a moment to himself, which he frequently bemoaned in letters. 

It didn’t matter in the slightest if she didn’t reply to him. Princes had bigger fish to fry. 

Sylvain was out, canoodling with whatever-her-name-was. She would be replaced by whichever girl he met next back home (if he hadn’t already exhausted the supply), but the company was company nonetheless. In the fashion of a disgusting philanderer, he had a way of making girls care too much about him. He guessed the whole “Heir of House Gautier” factor had to be considered as well. 

_“I’m sure you’ve guessed that I’m not going to the library.”_

_Handing Sylvain **yet another** tub of hair pomade, Felix rolled his eyes._

_“I’m not stupid.”_

_“Never said you were.” Sylvain raised his eyebrows at Felix, then frowned down into his suitcase. “I’m gonna have to break it off with Olivia.”_

_“No surprises there.”_

_“Actually, I think I’ll miss her.”_

_“How so?”_

_“She’s spirited! All the girls I meet back at home are nobility, and you know how nobility sucks the life out of you when you’re just a pawn in a political marriage.”_

_“Can’t say I can relate.”_

_“Lucky you, eh? Anyway, I can’t remember the last girl that let me buy her a drink.”_

_“Maybe you should try a new method of approach.”_

_“And why should I listen to you, Felix? You’re the last person I’d ask for romantic advice. I’d be better off talking to Beauty.”_

_“Can’t believe you named your horse that.”_

_“You can’t criticise me for that either, since you can’t even—”_

_“Alright, shut up.” Felix did not like to be reminded of what happened when he mounted — or rather, tried to mount — a horse for the first time._

_“Still, the topic remains. Aren’t you ever going to get a girlfriend?”_

Felix was adamant that the answer was no. It was always going to be no. Yes, he would have to marry eventually. _But_ there was no obligation to love his wife. Arranged marriages for the sake of politics and money and crests happened all the time. Sylvain knew that. All he had to do was look at the way his family tree folded in upon itself.

Ingrid and Glenn were destined to be since 1163. They were absolutely not in love, but they were absolutely together forever either way. 

Felix knew what some variation of mild affection looked like, at least. For all the arranged marriages that happened in Fódlan's upper echelon, his parents’ marriage somehow was not one. Felix could see the way his father looked at his mother and the way she effortlessly joked back. They cared about each other more than they cared about whatever legislative advantages their union posed if the “no politics at dinner” rule that his mother imposed was anything to go from. 

He knew what that looked like, and whatever Ingrid had with his brother wasn’t it. 

But Felix was not knowledgeable about matters of the heart. Sylvain had made the point over and over again. So, who was he to judge?

Knowing what love felt like was a completely different story. Was it instant? Did it happen over time? Did Glenn just make his mind up that he had to “love” Ingrid as soon as he was told? Avert his eyes from any other girl he ever saw afterwards?

Ah, the shackles of nobility. Every single one of them was held by those stupid rules. Sylvain was forced to surpass Miklan as heir. Ingrid was given away to pass on her dying crest. 

Then, there was Felix. 

Everyone else was an heir and he was just the spare. 

Of course, he was grateful for that. Who needed the pressure of leading an entire region? Glenn had the responsibility, one day, of keeping so many people safe. Ingrid would be alongside him, the two a frustratingly, fittingly chivalric couple as leader of the Faerghus military and His Highness’s right-hand woman. 

Felix picked up an iron sword from his rack. After months and months of confusion about whose weapons were whose, their father decided to buy them each a place to put their own. 

The first rule of brotherly conduct, Felix learned when he “borrowed” Glenn’s two-toned whetstone at age six, was to never take something that belonged to the other. At least without asking first. 

And the first rule of being a decent person, let alone a fitting noble, was to not steal another person’s wife. 

He approached the dummy, sword in gloved hands, standing with his left leg forward. Sword-fighting drills were good for focusing the mind. They weren’t good for battle, because he wasn’t going to be fighting lifeless objects, but he had nobody to spar with. He could have called upon one of the young squires, but they weren’t as competent, and their swords could hardly cut a hunk of bread. 

He struck up, down, left, right, diagonally. 

Despite repeating this pattern multiple times, his previous train of thought hadn’t quite ended at the desired destination. Or rather, it hadn’t ended with the desired termination. Train with a clear mind. He had to stop. 

Hmph. The way he thought of Ingrid made her sound like property, and if she could hear him, she would be pissed. Understandably. Felix didn’t want to _own_ her. Not in the way she was given to Glenn the moment she set foot on Earth. It was unfair to force anyone into a certain path in life, especially a new-born child. Yes, he knew that times in Galatea were hard. Yes, he knew that people were borderline starving and that Count Galatea was doing his best. But to cart his daughter off to be a bargaining chip to obtain funds was wrong.

It was simply, straight-up wrong. Who is anybody in this world to sacrifice something that isn’t theirs to give?

Up, down, left, right, diagonal. 

At least if she were to end up with Felix, it would be through the power of choice. 

_...right? _

To renounce all the silly noble customs meant she was free to do whatever she wanted, free of the burden. And really, she would still be in the Fraldarius family and getting money from his father.

Felix was not knowledgeable about the nature of his own heart. However, it was stupid to feel like this. It was entirely dumb, he knew, to feel like this. 

He struck the training dummy with a sweeping upwards blow, cutting a gash right up the middle. The filling spewed out like inanimate blood. 

“You’ve got to stop being so goddamn feral with the dummies, Seiros almighty.” 

Hmph. If it wasn’t the man of the hour himself, sacrilegious as ever. 

“Hurry yourself up, Ingrid and Sylvain are leaving.”

At the mention of her name, Felix almost tossed his sword at Glenn’s head. Almost, because he didn’t want to see it roll down the steps into the training area. That would have been grim. 

Instead, he tossed his sword into the training rack and dragged his sleeve across his forehead. This was a problem he had to deal with himself. 

“Already?” He huffed, catching his breath. 

“Yes. If you hadn’t gotten so consumed in beating the shit out of that, you would have taken a look outside.”

Felix took the opportunity to crane his neck and peer out the windows, which, for what he guessed were “security reasons”, took the form of small slits right below the ceiling. 

It was almost sunset. 

“And by the way—”

“I’ve got to go do something quickly. See you outside?”

Glenn’s reply was lost on him.

************

Felix leapt from corridor to darker corridor as he descended to the kitchens. There was something about the stately homes that he and his friends lived in, and the need for everything that wasn’t sparkling or noble or chivalrous to be stuck underground.

Every single one of their servants was to be confined below stairs until they were needed. So much so that in the thirteen years of his short life, he barely knew any of their names. 

Obviously, there was his and Glenn’s old nurse — Elise? Memory told him her name was Elise. They gave her to House Galatea after Auntie Tove died. He remembers Glenn explaining something about wet nursing to him when he asked where she’d gone. The concept was still strange.

Then, there was their designated monk, Silas, who’d poured water on his infant head and baptised him into the Church of Seiros. Without his permission, mind, but it was his job. With no excess of money in Faerghus, you earned your pay, or you were binned off and replaced. Since his home was the _Holy _Kingdom, baptism was a given, no questions asked. 

Of course, there was also that scullery maid that Sylvain was trying to hit on the day he arrived. 

The vein of irresponsibility that Sylvain exhibited was baffling. They all knew that any mistakes or foolishness on his part would end up with her losing her job and probably cast out into the streets. Because, despite how much he wanted to see Uncle Rodolfo’s face when Sylvain brought a commoner (a commoner _in service_, no less) home with child, there was no way that union was happening. 

Choices, choices. So many choices in one’s noble life, yet no control over the ones that mattered.

For example, dinner. Felix had no say in what was served up on his plate any day of the week, least of all — _oh, what joy — _Saghert and Cream Sundays, a household tradition devised by Glenn in an attempt to reduce waste of peach currants after a harsh winter and near-failed harvest. Using up the stock in their ever-overflowing pantry was supposed to “set an example” to the denizens of Fraldarius, or something nonsensical like that. 

_Ah, yes, what a generous and clever boy, constantly conscious of how he can make Fódlan a better place._

The rubbish that spilt from Count Galatea’s mouth never ceased to make him roll his eyes. Even if Glenn were to take a shit on his doorstep, he would pat him on the shoulder with those bony hands of his, then congratulate him for his conduct and morals.

Felix turned left and pushed open the towering iron door. Nothing understairs was labelled, so it had taken him most of his childhood to learn his way around.

Common servants like maids and footmen shared rooms in pairs. You would need to turn right and keep going all the way down to find them. The pantry was at the end of the hall. The butler and housekeeper had their own domains down the corridor. He had no business with them — the butler had taken to Glenn when he was born and didn’t have enough room in his heart for his work and both brothers. 

No matter. Instead, he struck up his own friendship with Arthur. Hall boys didn’t get a lot of time off but whenever he did, they played bowls.

Speaking of bowls.

Felix stuck his head around the open door and surveyed the kitchen. Since dinnertime had long passed, it was empty, food, plates and people all stacked away. 

Servants, for the most part, had a skill in being inconspicuous. They existed to do, not to be. And that’s why Sylvain should have set his eyes on different girls a long time ago: all a lady’s maid or kitchen assistant would do is nod yes, shake her head no, bob a curtsy and embellish every sentence with “milord” or “m’lady”.

_She’s too pretty for a maid. Well, that’s what my father said about Elise, and they sort of look similar?_

Ingrid’s words from the night at the restaurant came back to him. The latest target of Sylvain’s desires — before he met Olivia in a drunken daze — was Joyce, the newest scullery maid at Castle Fraldarius. According to Glenn, her parents had died in the plague that killed Aunt Adrienne, and they took her on to prevent her from becoming destitute after her remaining relatives had also passed. 

She was also quite oblivious. Aloof, maybe. Inexperienced, probably. However desperate people in Faerghus were for employees and jobs, most weren’t in the habit of hiring children. His parents seemed to be the exception, and it was probably a good thing that they were the exception and not the norm. His grasp on family finances and the like was loose, at least in comparison to Sylvain and Ingrid. Sometimes they would discuss harvests and budgeting and he would just wish they would get back to sparring already. Despite all this, he knew they should not go brandishing money and employment around for anyone who needed it. 

Sat in the dining area at the crumbling oak dining table was Joyce herself, embroidering a piece of muslin; a cloth that resembled the baptismal gown he wore as a baby. Once he came across the box full of his and Glenn’s childhood garments and attempted to rifle through it, he was scolded badly. Why? Search him. Adults made no sense.

“Hello.” She started at his greeting and scrabbled to stand. He would have apologised if it weren’t for his mother’s words that he ran the risk of being “too friendly” with the female staff. As if he were inclined to the ways of Sylvain. He really wasn’t. The comparison was insulting. “I was wondering about the tart from dinner.”

“What about it, milord?”

“You don’t have to call me that yet.”

“Oh, my apologies.” She curtsied. Felix groaned internally. Such was life, but formalities delivered from someone his own age never sat right with him. “I’m still not good with this airs and graces thing.”

“It’s fine. Anyways — the pie. Could I have the leftovers?” _Please_, his father would affix to the end of his sentence if he were here. 

“Sure. I mean—”

“It’s. Fine.”

She nodded, flushed, and turned to the range cooker. 

“What do you do with the china on that dresser?” Felix pointed to the ridiculously large piece of furniture to his right as if she could see the behemoth when she was shoulders-deep in the oven. “It’s not as if you can eat your meals on it.”

“We polish it.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s what your father pays us to do, milord.”

He couldn’t argue with that one. 

She cut and wrapped the pie in parchment paper, offering a basket for ease of transport, but Felix declined. His pocket would do.

He needed to get back up. They wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye, but if he took too long, Glenn would take it upon himself to make up some excuse for his absence. Excuses which usually consisted of any combination of Felix, the bathroom, his Sword of Zoltan, and hunting snares. The longer he took the more embarrassing they’d get. It took him months to live some of the jokes down, although they didn’t bother him. It was all good fun, and he got Glenn back in his own ways.

“Thank you for doing this.”

“You’re welcome, Master Felix.” She curtsied again. He was about to leave when she spoke.

“If this isn’t too presumptuous of me,” the maid darted underneath the cloth she was sewing to pull out a note, which she tossed around in her hands. “Could you please give this to Master Sylvain?”

Now. There was no point in being rude to the staff that his parents paid for, so he didn’t say anything much. Otherwise, he would have told her where to stuff it. Not that he cared for decorum or anything of the sort. It would be funny to see her face.

Instead, he furrowed his brow, tilted his head, and made a sort of implicitly disapproving expression, but nodded and took the piece of paper from her. That was going in the first bin he could find. 

“Thank you. And if I may ask—”

“I won’t tell my parents.”

************

Five or so minutes later, Felix reached the front courtyard. The chauffeur was packing Ingrid and Sylvain’s bags into the imperial. All the outside lights were already lit, meaning he must have missed his father’s goodbyes to them. Yikes. He really was late out. 

“Hey, Felix!” Sylvain waved him over as he sat on the edge of one of many large wildflower planters. Felix didn’t know why they had them. Fraldarius was never abundant with flowers; during the summer they became almost fraudulent in their stark difference to the rest of their home. The grey, short-lived coppiced birch trees and elderberry shrubs were slowly reviving after the perpetual winter, whilst the gaudy hot house dog roses seemed to pop up out of nowhere. 

“Yes?”

“You took a while. Couldn’t leave without saying goodbye to my favourite kiddo, could I?”

“I was busy.” He pointed to the sword holstered on his hip. 

“Destroying every object you could find as usual? No matter. You know, you’re so much more focused than me when it comes to t—”

“What do you want?” Excessive and obvious flattery was the avenue most trodden by him into getting things he wanted. Such flattery worked on people who didn’t find it predictable. 

“I don’t want anything!”

“You know me better than that.”

Sylvain sighed and nodded in defeat. “Okay, okay. See, if Olivia comes looking for me, you have to tell her I’m engaged.” The look on Felix’s face forced him to elaborate. “I might be, for all I know,” he shrugged. “You know what my father is like.”

“I’m not comfortable lying.”

“Oh, give over! You’re saving my skin; the goddess won’t damn you to hell.”

“Because the goddess is your best friend?”

“Of course she is! I’ll make sure she blesses you for helping me out.” Sylvain patted Felix on the shoulder in what was meant to be reassurance. “So, as I said, explain that I had to leave to see to a marriage proposal—”

“Don’t flatter yourself!” Ingrid, who was previously busy doing whatever with Glenn, turned around to shout at Sylvain. They were discussing lance techniques maybe. Or marriage. Who knew. “I don’t know anyone who would want to marry _you_.”

“Sorry, can’t hear you!”

“I said, I don’t—! Glenn, tell me, why do I bother?”

“Because you’re an imbecile.” 

“What? I didn’t ask for you to then insult me.”

“Too bad. The issue isn't Sylvain getting a girlfriend, but rather how many girls he gets through,” he explained. 

“Good point.”

“I bet he’s going for a home run this time.” Upon hearing this, Sylvain faintly proclaimed his chastity in the background. “How many to break the record?”

“Hm.” Ingrid thought a second. “I say five.”

Despite her audible disdain for his womanising, Ingrid participated in this betting. Felix would call it derogatory if he didn’t know them. 

“In four months? He’s not a bloody lightweight. Eight... no, nine at least.”

“Will you two shut up? If you carry on, _Glenn_, they’re going to be late.” He nodded in the direction of the chauffeur, who stood attentively, clearly wanting to leave but unable to say a thing. 

Glenn narrowed his eyes at Felix. “Alright, whatever you say, kid.” His mouth curled into a small smirk as he turned back to face Ingrid. “See you later, _dear_.”

Ingrid beamed back as she went to hug Glenn. “See you later, _dear_.” 

Glenn embraced her, taking a good few seconds to just hold her and Felix could have slapped the pair. Seriously, ugh. He decided that rolling his eyes was enough. 

“Can you two—”

Glenn let go and they both broke out into laughter before he could finish voicing his disgust. “Oh goddess,” he breathed. “You should see your face!”

“What about my face?”

“Oh, never mind.” 

“Sylvain, what’s wrong with my face?”

“Nothing that isn’t usually wrong with it.”

For a boy whose heart remained far from his sleeve, he was suddenly concerned about whatever facial expression he had just made.

Felix looked over at Ingrid and smiled — just a little — making sure he didn’t look annoyed, or at least wasn’t expressing whatever the burning inside his chest was. 

How long had that been happening for?

“Goodbye, Glenn. See you in Fhirdiad, Felix.”

Goodbyes? Wait, wait. Goddess almighty. Sylvain was already in the carriage, Ingrid was just about to get in.

“Ingrid. Wait.”

“Hm?” She stopped with her hand on the doorframe and turned to look at him. 

Felix fished around in his pocket. 

“Here. For the—” He coughed through his voice-break, hoping that nobody heard it. They all did, but he found it better to pretend they didn’t happen. “—journey.”

He handed her the vaguely round bundle of paper. “It’s some apple tart.”

“Stealing food on my behalf? Really?”

_Uh?_

She looked at the bundle of pastry for less than a second before pocketing it. 

“Don’t act like you’re not happy,” he countered. 

“That was not very noble of you.” Her stern expression softened within moments. It was remarkable what food did to her. By the looks of it, the tart wasn’t going to last even a fifth of the journey. “But thank you anyway.” 

“It’s fine.” His face was turning red, and it wasn’t fine. “They were going to be thrown out.”

Hugs happened. 

Heart palpitations occurred. 

Felix concluded that this could not happen.

Yeah, he’d pinpointed it, alright. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this is where the ship tag makes itself relevant
> 
> (this is going to be one long note because there's nothing like the constant need to justify your choices!)
> 
> The idea of a Felix/Ingrid/Glenn sort-of-not-quite triangle came from a comment that I saw on the leak threads in the fire emblem subreddit before the game came out and I've been writing this ever since. so thanks u/oceanblogging for the inspiration, whoever you are. 
> 
> Usually, I despise the idea of "love triangles" but I'm not writing one for no reason. 
> 
> I gave Count and (the late) Countess Galatea the names George and Tove. The Gautiers are called Rodolfo and Verena, and Dimitri's birth mother is/was Adrienne. Wanted to clear that up because I had plenty of fun doing the work that IntSys refused to.
> 
> In Chapter 2, in Sylvain's letter from his dad, it might've seemed like I though Bartels was in Faerghus. That's right because I did lmfao, I wrote that way before the Jeritza update. I thought that he became Baron then dissolved the house but we now know that Did Not Happen. Sorry for unwittingly bending canon.
> 
> also the no politics at dinner rule was instated because Rodrigue wouldn't shut up about Lambert, why else 
> 
> Next Chapter: ...But Not That Much


End file.
